RPlog:The Last Happy Night
Coronet Space Port - Coronet City This port is busy, like most, but here the hot breath of takeoff and the deep rumble of engines is closer, more of a feature of the port than an annoyance. The landing pads and small maintenance bunkers sprawl across a large open area open to the sky and surrounded by blast walls to protect the farmlands beyond. Pilots, engineers and techs, mostly natives, move among the hardware as if at home in the confusing and fast paced Port. A large complex off to the side houses control functions, transport authority offices, and the CorSec station. The Players: Orson: Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks has to be made up for with something strong on the inside: determination and persistence, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Lines around this human male's mouth and eyes tell of hard days and decisions in his past, each one a new crease in an otherwise young man's face. He is smaller framed, though quite stout with a barrel chest and strong shoulders. Still, he's not overly muscled, simply in good physical shape. Dark hair is kept in a simple style but is more often than not in a disheveled state. A few lonely gray hairs touch his temples. He might be around forty standard years old. He has a larger nose, on a round-shaped, bold face that is quick with a grin but usually caught up in a shade of thoughtful. A heavy jacket of gray-black coarse fur resembling mohair hangs on his broad shoulders, fastened halfway up his chest. A black shirt of simple material is visible beneath the jacket. A thick and heavily starched pair of dark trousers billow so much that it's hard to determine the individual pant legs, deep pleats making it look like a large billowing skirt. A strange half-boot lends support to his toe and heel, but leaves the tops of his feet exposed like a sandal. A copper-colored ring encircles his head with a dark round unfaceted jewel set over his forehead. A narrow crossbar angles out to either side from the crown, looking almost like antennae except they support a tiny row of fine chains and dangling costume jewels. Jessalyn: The composure of this young human woman is probably the most striking thing about her. Though otherwise unassuming, her expression is one of surprising coherence and calm, belied only by the slightly mischievous gleam in her leaf green eyes. Shining dark red hair falls in unruly silken waves down to the middle of her back, framing her wide cheekbones and smooth, pale skin not as fragile as most redheads'. She is relatively tall for a human woman, with long-boned limbs and a natural grace amplified by her skills. She is wearing a loose, cream-colored tunic made out of some light material, scooping low beneath her startlingly white throat and showing off a thin silver chain set with a rough-hewn but shiny blue-green stone that rests just below her collarbone. The tunic is belted at her narrow waist and the full sleeves end just above her pale slender wrists. She wears a pair of tight, dark brown pants tucked into knee-high black leather boots, both complementing the best pair of legs in ten parsecs. Simon: Of average height and fair coloring, the young man before you has dark brown hair and eyes of a color somewhere between blue and gray. His hair is parted and cut short. His eyes are deep-set, looking more ready to draw his brow into a deep frown than a warm smile. For facial hair he wears a well groomed goatee and mustache, trimmed short and of the same deep color as the rest of his hair. All in all, the man's demeanor can be summed up in a word: intense. Simon is dressed in earth tones. Light tan, loose fitting trousers are tucked into soft leather boots that come up to just under his knees, and are tied tight with brown, leather cords. Tucked into the top of his pants is a simple shirt of a matching color. Over this is a loose wool tunic of dark brown, covering his arms completely and hanging down below his waste. It's comfortable clothing, suitable for most climates and cultures. Strapped diagonally across his chest and back is what appears to be some sort of harness. It's worn in the way some people wear a bandolier, yet there is nothing attached to the device. A long shaft of cylinder rises over his left shoulder, a rod sheathed where some warriors sling their sword. Stiffly, Simon steps out from behind the _Tortured Soul_, rapping his staff upon the ground with each step. His cowl is up now, but he does not bother to stoop. It was likely that if there were any soldiers there to arrest him, they would already know who he was. The time for hiding was past. Stopping at the edge of the shadow of his ship, his eyes peek out from beneath the shadows of his hood, looking at the various passersby with an assessing look. Clenching his teeth, he takes another step, moving in the direction of the _Uwannabuyim_. He's happy that his footfalls are steady. It meant the shaking was past. The ramp of the Uwannabuyim is open to accomodate the coming and goings of the inordinately large number of passengers and organization associates that are using it as a base of operations. Orson is aboard, just inside the entrance, intending to keep a close watch on any beings that get very near the ship. Caution is still the word of the day. Inside, the sounds of the starport are only a steady din, ambient noise heard only distantly by the mechanic as he sits at the holochess table. Here, now, he's in the deepest Force meditation he's experienced yet, still a beginner but able to appreciate the depth of feeling and sensing that moves through his mind. There are no tranquil handstands or floating rocks -- only a pile of electronic components spread along the table. His fingers move quietly, floating above the surface of the table before descending on a tiny part and plucking it up for whatever project he's working on. He remembers to breathe, and holds up the long metal cylinder, rebuilt for the fourth time in as many days, judging its shape. One of dozens of local transit vehicles whirs up to the entrance of the starport to discharge its passengers, among them the Jedi Jessalyn Valios. It has been a long first day in Coronet City, and she had spent some time after her meeting with Rislyn making a few contacts -- her brother who lived in the outskirts of the city, as well as a message left for a friend who used to work at the local university. It was easier being discreet without her companions in tow, but she misses their presence, nonetheless, and all day she had kept some of her senses attuned to any sense of danger. As Jessa now weaves her way through the crowd, heading for the Uwannabuyim, she taps a keycard against her palm with the other hand in an idle fashion. Spotting Simon more with the Force than with her eyes as he lurks near the ramp, she waves the keycard in the air and smiles, jogging towards him. "Hi! I got us a room," she tells him as she draws near. Turning toward Jessa as she speaks to him, he brings his left hand to his face and pushes back his cowl. As it slips to his shoulders, the blank expression on his face is replaced with one of warm friendliness. There is a sparkle in his eye as he looks into Jessalyn's. "A... room? That sounds... wonderful," Simon says. He extends his senses to gently caress Jessalyn's mind, once more providing proof for the depth of his love and trust. The gesture only diminishes some of his good cheer slightly. With the gesture, a sensation enters his perceptions, coming from the direction of the ship. Turning his eyes toward the _Uwannabuyim_, Simon says, his voice distracted, "I think your student is practicing on his own, Jessa. Dangerous, yes?" Slipping the keycard into her back pocket as she finally reaches Simon, Jessa meets his smile, the look in his eyes bringing the usual flutter of emotion to her throat, and making her flush in spite of herself. "Just a place to stay for the night, or however long we're going to be here I suppose." She returns the warm mental embrace, very gently, not wanting to provoke or pry beneath his surface thoughts. Turning her head toward the ramp, she makes a face, tapping her lips with her finger. "He can be a little over-eager. We should check on him," she decides, and takes Simon's hand as she starts up the ramp. Orson is squinting, looking along the length of the cylinder in his hands, though Jessalyn and Simon are certainly in his field of view. His crown has been removed for now, replaced by a wide headband sporting a light on one side and a magnifying lens on a flexible arm on the other. It's a bizarre contraption on his head, but it's something of his own design and he feels perfectly at home in it. Suddenly, he whaps a hand down on the schematics to his side, staring at them intently. "Blast," Orson murmurs, setting the device-in-progress down gently. With a final defiant ripple, the Force stills and Orson is brought back to reality, his instinctive mechanical meditation broken by the entrance of the others. "Hello," he offers the pair. "Everything okay?" As Jessalyn leads him into the ship, Simon notices the difference in the feel of the ship. There was a feeling left in the place, as subtle as a shadow in the eve, of the people that had come to the _Uwannabuyim_ since he'd departed it earlier. He wonders at that a moment. Not merely that there should be so many new people involved with the ship, but also that he should be able to tell the difference. The time spent on Myrkr had heightened his sensitivity. Or perhaps it was the woman who held his hand. "Everything is well with us, ... Orson," Simon says. He licks his lips and looks toward what Orson was working on. It looked like some technological device, yet there was something familiar about it. Then it hits him, and his mouth drops open. "You've starting that rather soon, are you not? For the Selas, it is the last ritual in his apprenticeship to build his weapon. It involves fasting, solitude, and entering a trance that can last for several weeks." "Ideally, that's similar to the Jedi practice," Jessalyn intervenes on Orson's behalf as she walks over to the holochess table to look at what he's working on. "Though I built mine relatively early in my training, simply because I was going to need it for defense, whether I liked it or not." Despite her words, she gives Orson an uncertain look, shaking her head. "I thought I said you could work on the schematics. Be careful, Orson. You're nowhere near ready, even if your abilities with machines make you something of a prodigy at this." She smiles at him to negate the mild scolding, then glances back at Simon, one corner of her mouth quirked upward. "It's a ... prototype," Orson says, looking at Simon through a microscopic viewing lens and seeming somewhat exasperated. Not exact. Not perfect. Yet. "Just a model, to try out some ideas." He seems frustrated, but it's likely something held over from his recent misadaptation of something he had drawn. Both his ability and his sense of perfection has been sharpened, and it's brought him to a strange level of inner conflict that would only be resolved when the device worked. Wielding it was a secondary concern. The mechanic starts to point out that he hasn't eaten since Myrkr, though Simon wouldn't have appreciated the humor. Jessalyn cuts him off anyway, and he purses his lips, simply nodding. "I'll put it away for a while. I need to rethink a few things regardless." He watches his little spotlight track across Jessalyn, and it reminds him to shut off the headgear. Since he had broken his lightstaff in half so that Mira would have a weapon to defend herself with, he had rebuilt the missing half of his weapon. He had thought it would be an arduous task as it had been when he was an apprentice, but his strength with the True Source had made it an almost academic endeavor. Closing his eyes, he extends his senses to the weapon that Orson was constructing. His mind fills with the feel of the different parts. Raising his hands, he feels the smoothness of pieces of the assembly on his fingertips without ever touching the apparatus. The flaws in the construction become a part of his consciousness, and he moves his hands in the air as if shifting lenses and wiring. He finally stops and opens his eyes, blinking for a moment before turning his attention to Orson. "It is very close, Orson, but... I think that which you know is getting in the way," Simon says, gently. He passes a glance to Jessalyn. It wasn't his place to instruct her student, but perhaps this once it would not be amiss to at least give some small amount of instruction. "Though the weapons of light appear to be technological, the construction of them is a matter of the heart and soul. It is a valid lesson in learning to let the True Source guide your actions." Appreciating his wise advice, Jessa watches Simon with fascination as he explores the sleek device with his senses, her own perceptions picking up the faint ripples stirred in the Force by his careful inspection. She folds her arms across her chest, exchanging looks with both of them. "He has much to unlearn," she says with a grave smile, though her eyes are sparkling. "It's going to be a beautiful weapon when it's complete, that's for certain. Orson's design is innovative." Suddenly realizing how tired she is, Jessalyn yawns, stretching her arms high over her head as she does so. Covering her mouth, she tells them, "I reserved a couple of rooms for us over at that seaside inn. I don't know about you two, but I want to sleep on a nice soft bed instead of a barracks bunk tonight." Confused, Orson's brow turns dark as Simon speaks. For this Selas, who seemed to even avoid electronic door controls, to be telling /him/ how to do his work would be insulting if he hadn't voluntarily placed himself in the student position. More than that though, he's shocked. "Yes, perhaps I'm missing something -- important," he surmises quietly, reaching for a case to store the useless parts in. "It's a remarkable exercise. Like a mind puzzle. Except ..." He looks up at Jessalyn. "Like a Force puzzle." The man dabs some sweat that's started to form at his face, and shakes his head, leaning forward to stand. "No, you guys go ahead," he suggests, waving his hand. "I don't, er I'm pretty comfortable here." Taking a step closer to Orson, Simon claps the man on the shoulder firmly with his left hand, then steps back, lacing his fingers around his staff in front of him. Thoughtlessly, the fingers on his right hand trace the petals of one of the roses carved into his weapon. He looks to Jessalyn, returning the smile she'd given him. "You should be very careful with the True Source... the Force... during this time, ... Orson," Simon says, picking his words carefully. The words themselves were not particularly out of line. Caution was never poor advice. He realizes as he speaks, though, that he is still giving instruction to Jessalyn's student. Clearing his throat, he continues just as hesitantly, "Jessalyn has told you of a Dark Side. While we may disagree on the nature of the True Source, we do agree that there is a danger. Those that are newest to the touch of the True Source are the most susceptable to becoming a Fallen." His words said, he takes a step closer to Jessalyn, putting an arm around her shoulders. It was clear from his stance that he was going to leave with Jessalyn, whether he was sleepy or not. "Yes," Jessalyn seconds, thinking that the dual training mode was really working quite well this time. Orson might not appreciate the criticism of the Selas, but that is exactly his error. The thought makes her smile inwardly. "Be careful. Try to work on your shielding. Tomorrow I'll try to give you a lesson on that. We wouldn't want Tazecks to come sniffing around and finding you." Especially if he's not going to be staying near them. She bites her lip worriedly as Simon slides his arm around her, and finds herself comforted by his touch, leaning into his side and slipping her own arm around his waist. "You sure? There's a restaurant there, too, if you're hungry." She's already moving for the control pad to the ramp. The old apprentice gives a stiff nod, blowing out some spent breath. "I will, be careful I mean. I thought I might catch some evening surf in an hour or two. I've got my business affairs handled, at least for the moment." A nice change of pace, more meditation, in his own way. "I'm keeping an eye out for her. Well, at least for a few particular types of ships, anyway." With that, Orson sweeps off the holochess table, cleaning schematics and a few odds and ends away, and steps away from the pair. "I'm sure. Don't worry about me." Strong arms cross over one another and he smiles distantly at them both, flashing a guarded smile. Something in Orson's smile makes Jessalyn remember the vision that had struck her so suddenly, a similar cold shiver running up her spine even now at the memory, tensing her muscles with dread where she stands beside Simon. She was no closer to knowing what it meant. If it is the future... well, she can't escape her destiny. She'd come close enough to death too many times already to not have accepted the risks of being a Jedi. It was part of her life now. "Have a good time," she says weakly to the mechanic, hitting the control pad, and abruptly departing the ship, not wanting Orson to sense the weakness she's feeling. Simon gives Orson a nod, his expression once more mostly expressionless. Mostly, in that there was a glint of knowing in his eye, as though he knew Orson would be up to mischief as soon as he and Jessalyn were out of earshot. Some apprentices were like that. It didn't seem to matter their age. Only their eagerness. The shiver that runs through Jessalyn earns the attention of the Selas. As they begin to make their way to the ramp, Simon stops them and says, "Something wrong? Do you sense something?" Jessalyn's hands grip both Simon's arms as she turns to face him, her shoulders hunched upward as if she would prefer to be curled up in a fetal position right now. "It's not danger. A vision, I had. I don't know. I think it was the future." She spares Orson a look, trying to keep her voice low and pitched for Simon's ears alone. "I will tell you about it later," she assures him with a quick smile, indicating Orson's presence with a tilt of her head. Frowning, Simon nods his head slowly. He didn't like the sound of this, but he had learned a long time ago how to be patient. He could wait as long as it would be necessary for Jessalyn to share her secrets with him. He didn't have to like it, though. "Later, then," Simon says, matching Jessalyn's lowered volume. "If you feel that it is not an immediate danger, then it can wait for a while. I'm sure that whatever the danger is, we will face it down together." Orson wanders starboard as they leave, changing his clothes once more and hunting around for a wetsuit. Gold Beaches were calling the preoccupied mechanic and, out of some sense of routine, he goes through the motions of getting ready. Simon and Jessalyn would be gone and distracted soon enough, caught up in a turmoil of love and sympathy that Orson could already see the unfortunate end of; the only unanswered questions in Orson's mind are how long it will last and how hard the feelings will be between them. The differences in their backgrounds, Jessalyn's motivation ... but it was their lives. He couldn't save them from everything. Orson gives an absent-minded wave as they depart, sealing the ship up tight behind them and locking himself up with his own questing mind even as he prepares for surf. Managing a smile to the tall Selas, Jessa takes a steadying breath. "You might be right," she says in a somewhat lighter tone. "It's not an immediate concern. Let's go, hmm?" Not wanting to wait any longer, she squeezes his hand and heads out through the starport, for the transport she had already arranged to meet them there for the ride out to Coronet's gold-lined seashore. Last Happy Night, The